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It was one of his seventeen residences, this one a quaint little pied-a-terre in Rodion. Rustic, he thought, surveying the furniture. Rustic and pleasant and just right for the night’s events. And even if the berth was a little…garish, it only suited what he was ostensibly here for.
The Senator wasn’t a mech who had to resort to buying interfacing. But he knew that no knowledge is ever wasted, so now, when he needed to, he knew how to get one. It distressed him that the old Lightwave systems were still in use, and fallen to such purposes, but he tried to reassure himself he was still laying the groundwork. Cybertron would be better, but the change had to be done right. Simply breaking the old system was an invitation to topple into an abyss: there needed to be structures in place to build a whole new system, one organic and designed, and not haphazardly added onto, lumpish and ugly.
And this was one stick of one piece of it, he thought, checking his chrono. The buymech he’d found had a decaklik, still. He was just antsy, the way he always was: less nerves than a taut-bellied anticipation. But the more he did himself, the safer everyone else was. He was too high profile to take down. Even if this were discovered, they’d think they’d merely uncovered a sex scandal, and look no further.
And right now, that was the worst it could be, till he measured this one's mettle himself, and maybe, maybe sowed some loyalty.
A scuff outside the door. The Senator called up the security feed. Ah, there he was, several kliks early, scowling at his chrono. Punctuality. Good. He knew the Security Records check—and his own background checks—were right. This was the right one, the one he needed for the job.
The Senator coded the door, smiling down at the smaller mech. “Come in,” he said, stepping backward. He could feel the red optics studying him intently, as though searching for…something. He couldn’t tell if the buymech found it or not: he shrugged after a moment and stepped across the threshold. “Drift, right?”
Another shrug, the spaulder rising and falling in a negligent grace. Drift was hardly a beautiful mech—most buymechs weren’t, not for long—but he had a certain economic grace of movement, and his face, well, honestly could be attractive.
It was something the Senator decided he needed to work on. A smile, by the end of the night. It was good to have a goal.
“Can I get you something?”
A blank stare.
“Energon?”
A wary moment. “All right.”
Perhaps it was good to be wary. It at least said this Drift was no fool. He inclined his head to the small dispenser. "By all means, help yourself."
Another wary look, and the mech sidled around him toward the dispenser. "You don't want any?" In someone else's voice, in another context, it might have been a courtesy. This was suspicion. It spoke well of the other's intelligence.
"I'd love to." Shockwave inclined his helm, graciously.
Drift drew forth two glasses, drawing energon and handing one to the Senator watching him under lidded optics.
Shockwave raised his glass in a gracious sort of toast, taking a slow, measured sip, watching as Drift's optics studied the room. It wasn't much: a simple cottage, really, so unlike his tower in Kaon. He wondered what the other was thinking: he knew his fellow senators would study his possessions with an appraiser's gaze, for value and worth, for what political affiliations they could scry. But this was a new perspective entirely, and he couldn't help but wonder what his world looked like from the outside.
It probably looked like waste.
And suddenly he realized the gulf of inexperience on another level. He had...no idea how to move this to the next, logical step. It had seemed simple enough to execute but in the moment, with the other mech in the room with him, he had ceased to be a cipher, a cog in Shockwave's plan, and became, somehow, real. Shockwave was always about big steps, big plans and sometimes--as now--the small steps linking them eluded him.
Drift's optics circled the room, back to Shockwave, his gaze grazing over the white chassis, the bright chartreuse and blue flashes, before rising over to the face.
"You haven't had any," Shockwave pointed out. Manners, he could do.
Drift tossed the glass's contents in one neat swallow, replacing the glass on the counter. The drink, Shockwave thought, of a mech who expected his fuel to taste bad, tossing it back fast to get it over with. In such a small moment, revealing himself, his history. It was fascinating.
Drift approached him, optics catching his, a cynical smile curving one corner of his mouth. "Here? Or do you have a berth or something?"
"A berth. Of course." He laid his own glass, half -empty, on the counter, his hand curling over the smaller mech's wrist, leading him into the small back room.
"Does this suit?" He gestured with one hand toward the berth. It was a bit much, perhaps, but he did like his little luxuries, and the place always made him bubble with humor. It was piled with pillows of different shapes: wedges and hexagons and circles, things he’d gotten on his off-planet travels.
A shrug. "Fine with me." A pause. "How do you want it?"
If Shockwave had folded over himself the illusion that this was not merely a transaction, Drift tore that illusion away. "Want it." He hadn't thought to this step, either.
The corner of the mouth twitched again. "Have to explain it to you?"
No. He'd read about this. And seen a few holovids, which Ultra Magnus had sniffed at and deemed 'trashy'. He knew enough to have some faint hint as to the protocol. "What limits?"
"Permanent injury," Drift said, flatly, sidling toward the bed, one finger surreptitiously pressing one of the pillows.
The phrasing caught his interest. "Permanent."
A shrug. "Temporary costs above base rate. Repairs. Time lost."
“But beyond that?”
A twitch of the mouth. “You’re buying.” Well, that seemed to settle that.
“Kneel,” Shockwave said, experimentally. “On the berth.”
A brusque nod, and Drift moved onto the berth, positioning himself kneeling, facing Shockwave, his face blank and impassive. Shockwave stepped in closer, cupping one hand behind the head, tipping it up by hooking one thumb over the short finial. He bent lower, feeling a strange quiver in his belly, his mouth brushing Drift’s. There was a pause, a hesitation, as though that weren’t something Drift was used to, before the mouth parted under his. It wasn't so much of the return of the kiss as an acceptance.
His hand stroked down the chassis, supple fingers exploring Drift’s contours, somehow excited by the thought of all the hands that had been there before. “Back,” he murmured pushing his helm’s crest against Drift’s. “Lie back.”
Drift obeyed, sliding back down to his elbows, body arching over his feet. Shockwave gave a chirr of pleasure, pushing the dark knees apart, exposing the white of his groin. He could feel a tremor through the other’s EM field as he slipped one hand up between the thighs, fingertips grazing the seams of the inner thighs, almost to the swell of the interface hatch, before meandering back down. “Relax,” he said, his voice silky and polished, as his hands—both of them, this time—renewed the journey, up the sleek planes of the thighs, tracing ornate little swirls and swashes, edging near to the interface hatch and backing off. He could feel heat rising from Drift’s body, he could sense the plushness of charge gathering in the other’s interface hatch.
Yes, this was better, even though Drift’s optics had gone still and distant, a bit of a stretch from the smile he wanted. He combed his fingers down the thighs again, stirring the air over the armor, as he settled himself, on one hip, on the edge of the berth, lowering himself down between the parted legs.
The thighs were trembling with a sort of aroused anticipation, surrounding Shockwave’s face with heat and a sort of dense, pleasurable fuzz. He nuzzled at the white panel, hands closing over the thighs, squeezing and kneading at the metal.
“You want….” An offer, the voice tight and controlled, still trying to keep this a transaction.
“I want you to enjoy yourself.” He felt the stutter in the EM field at his words. He grinned, even though Drift couldn’t see it. “As you said, I’m buying. That’s what I want.”
A shuddering vent of air, and he saw the smaller hands clutch, one sinking into one of the spongy pillows. “All right.”
“Good.” He bent back down, exventing on the interface hatch, feeling the heat of his breath on the panel. Drift felt it, too, giving a little helpless squirm. He moved closer, tracing the hatch’s outline with his glossa, grinning into the sharp gasp from the buymech, the way the panel clicked itself aside, exposing the brushed metal of the equipment covers. Both radiated heat against his facial plating, against his mouth as he pressed against them. Drift, above him, contorted, hands clawing at the berth.
And he hadn’t even gotten properly started yet.
His glossa traced a lazy circle around the valve cover, two half arcs of heat and electricity, feeling the thighs shift around him, torn between pulling away and pushing against, and settling for an exquisite stasis. A hand moved, lifting from the berth to stroke over his shoulder, on his helm. He pushed it away—this wasn’t about him. Or it was, but on his terms.
He lifted his head. “Arms. Over your head.”
A shiver before Drift complied, hands lifting stretching over his head, wrists crossed, exposing two beautiful expanses of his rib struts.
Those were for later. This was for now: the valve cover irising quietly aside, the valve’s clean silver mesh glistening with lubricant. He tipped his head forward, glossa dipping into the valve, tasting the lubricant—sweet and viscous and clean. He could feel his own equipment stir, aroused, his spike twitching eagerly behind its own cover, wanting to sink itself into the slick darkness.
He held off, continuing to explore, his attention tuned to the body around him, the quivering, taut thighs, the sleek hips, the ragged ventilation raising and subsiding in the chassis. He was studying, enjoying, Drift’s response far more than he could his own, his hands squeezing over the waist, as his glossa probed, at first slow, pushing into the calipered rim, then fast, in quick, snakelike little flicks, then rolling to one side.
Each brought a different response from Drift: moans and squirms and breathless sounds, the EM field swirling, eddying around him. Shockwave gave a pleased little growl of his own, tracing shapes with his glossa against the valve, feeling charge rising, inexorable and tingling, until the whole body bucked around him, thighs squeezing at his broad shoulders, as the valve clutched desperately on air, seeping fluids with its release, sweeter than before.
“Good,” Shockwave purred, moving to crawl up Drift’s body, his lubricant-wet mouth leaving a glossy trail of kisses up the other’s body, up the exposed underarm, as he lay his body, for a moment, on Drift’s just to feel the weight and stolidity, just to take in the quivering washes of overload against him. Drift’s optics were wide and distant, his vents deep and fast pants against Shockwave’s shoulder. When they subsided, slowly, he lifted up. “Roll over.” He was used to giving orders, the tone of command came easily to him, without edge or defiance, without the need to prove anything. He said, it was done.
As it was this time, Drift wriggling over to his belly, in the small space between Shockwave’s body and the berth. Shockwave nuzzled the back of the helm, before kneeling back , moving between Drift’s thighs, to, well, admire.
He didn’t have many lovers who let themselves be looked at. Some, in his youth, had wanted to be seen, primped and polished and ready but had balked at moments they hadn’t chosen. Some had been perennially shy, as though interfacing changed everything. But lovers of all kinds had faded away as his life had gotten more...complicated. And it was a welcome remembrance to have a mech lie before him, head cradled on his folded arms, letting himself be looked at.
And touched—Shockwave’s hands traced the compact kibble of the other’s back, the tight, economical lines down the waist and to the aft, a complicated bit of engineering where weight and mobility came together.
Drift arched his spine, lifting his hips up into the touch, as though he knew what Shockwave wanted, anticipated the desire. He didn’t know, and Shockwave pushed the aft down, one palm splayed on the center of the pelvic frame.
He leaned forward, nuzzling against the audio. “You’ll smile for me, Drift. By the end of the night.”
“Will I.” A sullen challenge, citrus sharp and bright, that heated Shockwave’s cocky grin.
“You will. Maybe even laugh.”
A snort, disbelieving, that Drift cut off, pressing his face against his forearm. “That didn’t count.”
Shockwave chuckled. “Of course not.” The exchange aroused him: the subtle half-resistance, the contact of personalities, not just mere bodies. It was something he strove to fight every day—that one’s form was not one’s function. A mech shouldn’t be limited by what his alt was, or his origins, but by his spark, his spirit and his drive.
He released his spike, laying down to press it against Drift’s pelvic frame, sandwiched between them, the pressure on the brink of pain, tingling and arousing, as he bent forward to bite the back of Drift’s neck, giving a possessive growl that sent a river of current surging through the other’s EM field. His hands slid up the other’s arms, blunt fingertips seeking out the gaps, stroking down the seamlines. It was enough for a long moment just to lie like this, his spike throbbing and wet between them, Drift vibrating underneath his mass.
But his spike, primed from before, wanted release, twitching against his belly armor, all too aware of the valve, wet and glistening and ready, so close. He could smell the salt-sweetness of the valve lubricant, intoxicating him until he could withstand no more. He rocked his hips back, scraping the tip of his spike down the line of Drift’s aft, leaving a wet trail as he nosed its head into the valve, feeling the calipers spread aside and wrap against him.
He stopped, with just the head inside, moving slowly, to place his knees outside of Drift’s hips, pressing the white thighs together around his spike. Oh, yes. Good. Better than good: the thighs squeezed against his spike, a hard, flat pressure so different from the round hug of a valve. He laid his weight back down, this time on those closed thighs, and began thrusting, the spike’s head popping in and out of the valve, jarring against the rim in one of those sensations that was neither pleasure nor pain yet somehow both, while the shaft of his spike sawed between the pressed thighs.
It was a kind of torment for Drift, he figured, a spike teasing at his valve, without the fullness of a spike, pressing the calipers, sliding over the ceiling node. But Drift lay still, only his EM field and bunching hands giving away his own building lust.
Because that’s what this was, in a sense. No refined lovemaking, no deep bond. Just physical desire igniting against another, without greed or ulterior motive beyond immediate gratification. This, too, was a new experience for Shockwave, and he let it take him over, studying the effects, studying his own responses, how he drove all the harder against Drift, friction heating his spike, the thighs he pressed between, how Drift’s near-whimper only sent a sharp spear of fire through his loins, jarring something loose within his belly, and he jolted, his entire body, as the overload struck him, spilling his transfluid in the valve’s mouth, his own hips shaking with strain as he mashed his spike as hard as he could, the rim of its mounting plate jammed flush against the back of the thighs.
He gave a sigh, that wrung out tension through his body, as he curled down for a moment onto Drift’s back, their EM fields weaving together. It felt…nice. Intimate and close, even though he knew it was an illusion. They lay for a long moment, his spike’s head still blocking the valve’s mouth, heat shimmering from their joined bodies, before he pulled himself off, out, reluctantly, stroking a soothing hand over the valve he’d used so roughly, eliciting an almost endearing little gasp. Shockwave settled on his side, reaching over to pull the smaller mech against him, cradled against his arm, his spike a wet presence on his thigh.
“Really,” Drift said, the mouth compressed into a thin line.
“You’re going to object to this part?” Shockwave asked. The post coital cuddling was objectionable? Drift’s world was very, very strange.
A snort. “You’re buying.”
“Yes, I am,” Shockwave said, reaching over for one of Drift’s hands, exploring it with his fingertips before he lay it across his chassis.
The amber optics narrowed, and then the head shifted, resting on the divide of Shockwave’s shoulder. “Fraggin’ weird.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Should maybe listen.”
Something sparkled in the tone, and Shockwave reached over, catching the chinplate, tipping the other’s face up. “Is that a smile I see?”